


syntax

by timequakes



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timequakes/pseuds/timequakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>amy's world spins out of orbit and rights itself around a someone new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	syntax

**Author's Note:**

> Referenced works are, in order of appearance:
> 
> "A Walk in the Woods" by Bill Bryson (quotes 1 and 2)
> 
> "The Light Between Oceans" by M. L. Stedman (quote 3)
> 
> The first poem Amy mentions is "Possibly" by Barbara Cooker, and the second is "The Ecstasy" by Phillip Lopate. The one that ends the piece (and the one it's named after) is "Syntax" by Maureen N. McLane.
> 
> All come highly recommended!

She knows that something is wrong when she starts to slow, even before the allocation. It hurts- her knee always hurts- but she spends too much time on her feet every day for it to not feel gradual, and at first she thinks it’s just her body giving up. She’s thirty and she’s been a defender for years upon years, years upon years of running hard, hitting hard, pulling no quarter. She knows better than to think that everyone’s bodies are like Christie’s; for all she knows she might be on her way out. She’ll at least try to go gracefully, if she has to go, instead of kicking and screaming. It’s not her way.

It’s not her way to complain, either, so she doesn’t, but she expects that eventually someone will see through her. The one she suspects will catch it first is Christie, or Hope, from her vantage point, but she hides it well and she’s far from being the most important thing on their radars. The person who catches her surprises her. The person who catches her is Becky.

She’s always liked Becky. They’ve been friends since Becky popped up on the full national team in 2008, the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed 22 to Amy’s 25, and made the back line fresh and fun and new again after 4 years of the same thing, as far as Amy was concerned. They have a lot in common; in their quiet ways they see the things that other people don’t, usually, and they’ve shared books back and forth for years now, recommendations and annotated sci-fi books and HP Lovecraft over pre-practice coffee. In hindsight it’s not surprising at all that it’s Becky who finds her icing her knee and nods at it, unlacing her own cleats- “that’s the one from 2008, isn’t it?”, but it’s not a question because she knows.

And yet Amy’s still surprised.

“Yeah,” she says, surprised into a half-smile, “Kinda funny that you remember it.”

Becky shrugs, but there’s a tilt to her chin that hints at something Amy finds hard to read. 

“I was watching the rosters for the Olympics pretty closely, I remember the announcement.”

It’s the same knee, _that’s_ what terrifies her so badly. The same knee that knocked her off the 08 roster could be the same knee that ends her career, and it’s not like she hasn’t been careful, but no part of her wants to admit she’s in pain, so she switches over to the other knee like she’s just following routine and stretches the bad one, ignoring the twinge. Becky watches her do it, but she doesn’t comment. Instead she undresses, as she should, and Amy tries not to notice. It’s not hard when there’s a locker room full of women all dressing and talking and undressing at once, but it feels purposeful that Becky stayed out longer than anyone else, and it feels purposeful that she doesn’t bother to move a few feet away when she pulls her shirt over her head. Like a game.

She stands there in her sports bra and her training shorts and doesn’t make eye contact when she lets her hair out of its tight braid and shakes it out into loose blonde waves over her shoulders. 

When Amy dares to look out of more than her peripherals, there’s a wicked half-smile at the corner of Becky’s mouth that knocks her flatter onto her back than any bum knee ever could.

-

That night she has the kind of dream that wakes her up with the sheer force of her own guilt. 

Becky, facing her, repeats the whole locker room incident. And this time no matter how she wants to turn her gaze, she can't; she's transfixed by the expanse of porcelain skin, by her memories, really, of contrast- Becky's skin and the black band of her shorts, Becky's skin and the lavender of her sports bra. Amy swears she can feel the heat from the other woman's body, but she wakes just as she reaches out to touch.

She rolls over onto her stomach and buries her burning face in her pillow, and her knee isn't the only part of her that aches. 

-

She's stiff when she wakes the next morning and hobbles into the hotel bathroom. Most people are flying out today, she knows, and the allocation list will come out tomorrow, but she's here for another three days, treating herself. She knows the salt water, once she bothers to get out there, will do her good. Especially if she soaks her knee in it. 

She's not expecting the phone call, but then she's starting to realize how rarely she expects Becky at all, and how serious of a mistake it is not to. 

"Hey."

The voice on the other line brings Amy's dream rushing back and she swallows, repressing as much of the memory as she can. Lavender and pink. 

"Hey. What time's your flight?"

"Canceled, actually. I put myself on tomorrow's, but now I'm stuck here with nothing to do for another day, and I knew you were staying in town..."

"Oh." Becky knows everything. Amy wouldn't be surprised if she somehow knew about the dream. "You wanna hang out?"

\- 

They're used to spending whole days together, but alone together is an entirely different thing. When there are other people, it's easy for Amy not to focus too hard. Even when they're alone together before a practice on the rare occasion that happens, she has something to focus on, but with her knee giving her trouble Becky is that something to focus on. 

She orders tea with her breakfast, so when she pulls a non-fiction volume out of her messenger bag Amy's not surprised. That's something she's noticed about Becky, at least: tea for non-fiction, coffee for fiction. Her drink choices follow what she reads, because she reads with her whole being. 

"A Walk In The Woods," she explains, and Amy nods appreciatively. "Bryson. Nice. I'm rereading Card's short stories."

It's nice to be able to talk books with someone who understands what she means when she talks, without straining to make connections. It's always been nice. On long tournaments they share; in London Amy worked her way through every John Irving novel Becky brought (there were three, each annotated extensively in loose and narrow script) and introduced her to the wonder of Updike's "Witches of Westwick". 

"You have the anthology?" Becky asks, just as Amy takes the Bryson novella from her and skims the first page. 

"Yeah. Maps in Mirrors."

"I've never read them all at once."

"You can borrow it, if you want."

Becky's laugh is as clear and bright as the clink of her spoon against her tea mug when she stirs.

"I want."

-

They go out to the beach, early enough to beat the rush, and Amy's glad it's cool enough for shirts. She rolls up her sweats past her knees and wades in, and Becky follows, her jeans rolled up to her mid-calf. 

"It's bad today," Amy admits. Becky nods, says nothing. "I think I'm gonna get it looked at."

The water helps. Becky starts to phone in to her hotel, to reserve another night, and Amy stops her. "There's no need to pay for another night," is her excuse, "I have a pull-out couch in my room."

-

They trade books at the end of the night, after a day of wandering around the city that leaves her knee at least numb for a while. Her attraction to Becky is far worse up close and personal and alone, though this isn’t the first time she’s experienced her teammate in any of those capacities, but clearly something has changed since the last time. It’s hard to ignore. It’s almost downright _impossible_ to ignore, especially because there are little things that Becky does that _feel_ like flirting, even if they don’t necessarily read that way.

Like the way, when they walk together back to Amy’s hotel, Becky walks so close their arms brush, and when she laughs at something said she purposely bumps Amy’s hip with her own. Like how she leans against the hallway wall and watches Amy stick her key in the door a few times before the sensor works.

Trading books gives her an excuse to lie down, and Becky shuffles in and out of the bathroom and adjunct, semi-separate ‘living space’ without saying anything. Amy reads, but she also listens. She likes listening to other people move around, likes the comfort she gets from something as simple as hearing Becky brush her teeth. 

Her roommate for the night changes with the door to the bathroom open, of course, because modesty is apparently not her forte- either that or she’s playing at something, and _that_ thought makes Amy’s head hurt- so she scrambles for the book on her nightstand and opens it to one of the pages Becky has dog-eared.

_“My particular dread--the vivid possibility that left me staring at tree shadows on the bedroom ceiling night after night--was having to lie in a small tent, alone in an inky wilderness, listening to a foraging bear outside and wondering what its intentions were.”_

And that’s exactly it. Trust Bryson to give her words she can’t find, herself. Becky is the foraging bear, and Amy is left wondering and watching Becky out of the corner of her eye. 

-

She dreams again, but this time she touches. It’s the bathroom this time, it’s her hand splayed over Becky’s lower back. There’s the vague perception of movement, of softnesss and warmth that so rival Amy’s vision of Becky, all sharp-edged wit and infallible heterosexuality, and when she wakes up clutching at the comforter to the sound of Becky’s barely-perceptible snoring, she thinks _that’s_ what so attracts her. That Becky is something she can’t have, under any understandable circumstances.

And it sucks.

She sleeps again, this time without dreaming, and she takes Becky to the airport in the morning just because she has nothing better to do. She regrets it at the gate, though, when Becky hugs her for too long and murmurs a “thank you” into her neck that is entirely uncalled for.

-

She’s not exactly surprised when they tell her how bad it really is.

It would be impossible for her to be _that_ surprised. She knows this burn, the throbbing ache, the feeling of being stretched too far each time she takes a step. 2006 won’t let her forget it, forget the tear, the Peace Cup, the two seasons it took to get herself back on the field again. It’s not that bad this time. It’s not a tear. It’s just a support surgery, to keep the tear from coming back, because if she plays the way she always does, on her knee the way it is now, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

So they tell her to be careful, in the meantime. The only way for her to be careful is not to play, and she knows that they know that she knows it. It’s just easier not to tell her to cut herself off early. Before the Algarve. She calls Liz first, because she knows Liz would want to know. Though they haven’t been together for two years, and haven’t been _together_ for even longer, Liz is still her confidant and her friend.

“Come stay with me.”

It’s a brazen question and it takes Amy a moment to really hear it. When she does she realizes that not answering has given Liz the idea that she’s saying no, which she isn’t explicitly.

“I mean, in Seattle. Since you won’t be able to play in Chicago, come stay here- you’ll want the company, probably, and then at least you won’t be bored. And when you need help-”

“The surgery’s not that bad,” Amy interjects, but she doesn’t mean to sound as defensive as it comes out, so she continues, “I could use the company, but I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing, Amy. I offered.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Liz laughs, and Amy laughs, awkwardly, until Liz tells her to stop apologizing, and Amy wonders if living together means they’re supposed to be something again. Wonders if that’s what she’s supposed to want. She doesn’t, particularly, and it’s no fault of Liz’s, just that they’ve run their course.

“I’ll come. Thank you.”

-

The surgery is uneventful. She doesn’t mind being alone, because she doesn’t have to drive anywhere after her sister comes- just for two days- and she, even with her boot, can walk well enough to get herself to a cab, to get herself around the airport. She’s not supposed to bend her knee any but she doesn’t really have to in order to hobble, so she’s got a degree of freedom she didn’t have before, even with one crutch.

Liz meets her at the airport with a smile and a kiss on the cheek that’s too ambiguous for her to read. They’re close friends who haven’t seen each other for a while, so it’s not entirely strange, but given their history it might be a suggestion. A hint. Amy doesn’t take it.

She’s never been good with these things anyway. To begin with she wasn’t good at it. She could read the signs alright but never knew what to do with them; it was halfway through the 2008 season that she got up the guts to ask Liz out on a date, even though they’d known each other since Amy’s senior year at ASU and Liz had been sending signals at least that long. Now’s no different. Sitting in the car, with her bad knee pressed against the passenger door, Amy knows, innately, that Liz is waiting. For her part Amy bounces between thinking about her knee, the Algarve, and the Bryson in her backpack. The foraging bear.

As if on cue her phone vibrates, and she digs it out of her back pocket just to see texts from three separate people, and that’s when she remembers today’s the day they made the announcement about her missing the season. And she feels like she ought to have told people- her national teammates at least- but she hasn’t, either out of actual honest-to-god avoidance or because she forgot to, she’s not sure- so of course one of her messages is from Shannon, asking if she needs anything; one is from Abby, predictably, telling her she’ll be missed, that she hopes it’s nothing too bad, that she should come out to Rochester and visit, and one.

Well.

The one she doesn’t answer yet, the one that makes her glad her read receipts are turned off.

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

sounds like i’ll have to send you some more bryson.

-

Liz takes her to a place for dinner where the entrees are thirty bucks and offers to pay, and Amy feels vaguely uncomfortable in her button down because it seems like underdressing, and feels rude when she asks if they can split the bill. The restaurant is beautiful, on the water, and the food is spectacular, but the whole evening has the sour feel of rejection to it, like Amy’s hung Liz out to dry. She doesn’t mean to, and of course she feels bad- bad enough to kiss her over it, which won’t fix anything- so for the most part she keeps quiet. Liz is hurt enough not to extend a courteous small-talk lifeline. Both of them speak more to the waitress than to each other.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Liz says, once the bills and cards have left. Amy makes eye contact and reaches for sincerity she’s too tired to feel.

“You didn’t. I just didn’t realize, when I came up here.”

“It’s not why I asked. I asked as your friend.”

“Okay.”

They sign their separate checks, and on the way back to the car, Liz reaches to squeeze her hand. It should feel forward, like she’s reopening the conversation they just closed, but instead it feels like a peace offering. 

-

_That's the trouble with losing your mind; by the time it's gone, it's too late to get it back._

Becky has ‘the trouble with losing anything’ scrawled tidily in the margin, in blue ink. A ballpoint pen so it wouldn’t bleed through, which is the sort of thing only someone who really loves their books would think to do. 

Amy digs through her backpack for a blue ballpoint pen and underlines ‘anything’ once, clearly and carefully.

-

Amy  
iMESSAGE

send me all youve got.

-

Watching the Algarve is bittersweet. 

She and Liz settle in to watch the first game, and Liz is invested, but Amy’s obsessed. Watching her teammates makes her ache for the support of tight-laced boots and a tight-laced team. Mostly she tries to cheer them on, as best she can over twitter, and over Instagram, and over text. She manages.

She misses them.

When Bue scores she’s off the couch, all her weight on one leg, shouting at the top of her lungs, and she’s so enthusiastic that Liz laughs and gets a picture. It’s a full two minutes before Amy sits again, and has to prop up her leg and be back in the moment and back on the couch. Her heart’s pounding and her face hurts from smiling and when Liz texts her the picture the first thing she does is text it to Bue. It’s not the same as being there, but it’s something.

She watches every game. The second Liz can’t, because it’s preseason and she has things to do, but Amy makes sure she watches every one. 

China is especially awful, or wonderful, depending on the second. It alternates. The first time Amy realizes that Becky’s got the armband she almost chokes on her iced tea. She spends most of the rest of the game watching Becky when she can, trying and failing not to stare. Her attraction is worse like this, miles away, somehow. Worse because watching she can remember the sweat making Becky’s flyaways cling to her forehead, because she can practically smell the grass and dirt and Secret Clinical Strength Sport deodorant and IcyHot. 

She’s always been attracted to women in control of their bodies, always been attracted to the athletic type, but it’s worse because she knows _just_ how good Becky is.

She’s very good.

Syd scores early on, clipping on the heels of the fifteenth minute. The shocks start coming again starting with Ali, who scores right after the thirtieth minute mark off of a ball from Alex like this is what her position _calls_ for, more like a winger than a fullback, and from her seat on the couch Amy sits up straighter and cheers aloud, spilling half her sweet tea on her lap and the rest of it down the front of her shirt.

At the half she changes, sheepish but riding the high of a 2-0 lead even this far away from the team- from a team she has no guarantee of rejoining, ever. That’s a thought that usually haunts her but doesn’t right now. She decides she likes the idea of Captain Sauerbrunn, a take-no-bullshit, sharp-witted, generous leader. She can see it. Not yet- the band will go to Hope first, after Christie, and Hope will concede it to Abby instead, and Abby might take it for a while but probably won’t.

Megan scores barely a minute into the second half, and Amy decides to leave the tea.

It’s not really a surprise when Press scores, but it’s nice, anyway, even if they’re now absolutely creaming China to the point that it’s mildly embarrassing. Still Amy’s mostly distracted by Becky and the armband and the possibility it holds. That possibility makes Amy think of the possibility she might not make it back on the team once she recovers; with up-and-coming kids she’s easily replaceable and she knows it. She wonders if everyone else knows it, too, or if it’s just her who can feel it looming.

She sort of feels the panic, then, sitting alone watching other people play the game she’s made her life, because she can’t think of a single thing to do with herself other than play, and that means- if she can’t play for the better part of the next year- she’s useless. Not useless, really. Motivationless. 

Whitney scores close to the end of the game, which makes her the third defender in two games to hit the back of the net. She’s never done that, never felt the pressure to, but then this is a different team entirely. A new generation. In a fit of frustration- mostly frustration with herself, for letting this get to her, for predicting the future or trying to- she digs out her phone and sends out a text she figures she’s going to regret.

-

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

that armband looks good on you.

-

Liz and the Reign go to Japan. The next day the US win the Algarve, and Amy gets a text back.

-

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

it’s a little too much like an extra sleeve for me.

-

It doesn’t mean anything, but she treasures it anyway; she likes the way it feels when she goes into her text messages and sees that one sitting there, at the top of the list. It’s strange to be alone in the apartment that used to be hers, the one she left to Liz when _she_ left _Liz_. It doesn’t feel like hers, or theirs, it feels like it belongs to Liz. It’s hard to decide what’s really different. Eventually Amy figures out that it’s her.

Seattle’s first three games are away, and two of them are losses that Amy watches on her computer with growing helplessness. They play Chicago first, and it feels right that they draw; she can’t help noticing the holes in the back line she would have filled if she had been across the country and not sitting on a couch with her still-healing knee keeping her from doing more than light cardio. Portland beats them by one point, but as the flagship of the league, with Alex and Sinc both, nobody’s surprised. Considering that Megan’s overseas, Hope’s injured, and A-Rod’s pregnant, it’s really kind of surprising they weren’t held to a shutout.

Surprising until Kansas City does it next game.

She calls Liz, just because she caught a glimpse of her walking off the field looking like she’d been hit by a truck, and she regrets it a little but not much.

“They’re our home opener,” Liz says miserably, and Amy thinks about reminding her who’s missing but decides against it.

“You guys can come back.”

-

They don’t, though. They make it almost seventy minutes scoreless before they fall, but they fall, and it starts with Becky. 

Amy’s glad it starts with Becky, though, because then it’s alright to watch Becky, because everyone else is. She’s moving up the right side in a way that suggests she doesn’t expect to be stopped. Not cocky, exactly, just sure of herself, sure of her footing. It turns out as well as it starts; their young attacker gets a pass right to her dominant foot and all things considered Betos doesn’t stand much of a chance. It’s a beautiful goal. Of all the goals scored against Seattle so far, or at least the ones Amy’s seen, this is the best of them.

It’s still a loss, though, and if the fans in the stadium don’t leave disappointed, the players still leave the field feeling it.

-

She gets blindsided, waiting for Liz. Usually the home team comes out first, but the Kansas City players bottleneck out first, and she’s immediately aware of what’s bound to happen. Becky’s in the back, chatting amiably with Lauren, each of them with a captain’s armband around their wrists and Barnie behind them. Amy catches herself smiling, and Lauren’s the first to see her- the first to smile back. Barnie’s the first to get to her, though, and hug her, and it feels like camp is starting when Lauren jumps on them.

They’re happy to see her and nobody mentions the fact they had to find out about her injury through the grapevine. They ask her how her knee is, and chatter about the game, about the season, about the turnout. 

It’s only a few minutes but it feels like longer that the four of them stand together and Amy tries for eye contact with Becky, furtive and hiding it with glances all around, so that she’s sure she looks as if she’s stolen something. That’s how she sees Liz, though, and Liz sees her, and she finds herself murmuring something about having to go, because if Liz sees her around Becky she’s going to know, and Amy’s not ready for that. 

Two of them let her go. It’s Becky who catches her by the wrist and makes her stay a moment longer.

“Are you busy tonight?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Will you come by the hotel? I have a book for you.”

Liz sort of slows down, like she’s not sure she should be heading over at all, and Amy tears her eyes away, back to Becky, who’s looking at her, standing close enough that she has to look down a little, because as often as Amy forgets she _is_ taller.

“Yeah. What hotel?”

“The Hamtpon Inn on 156th. I’ll meet you down in the lobby.”

Becky’s gone with haste that says she knows Liz is right behind her. Whether or not that haste has anything to do with the way their eyes held or the vague flirtatiousness of their texts, Amy can’t weather a guess at. Liz stops at Amy’s side, and Amy turns to her, trying to remember the game- anything else.

“It was a really good goal.”

-

Becky, true to her word, is waiting in the lobby. She doesn’t have a book with her though, just a hug that seems unnecessary and lingers longer than she expects it to. Sixteen floors up Becky ushers her into an empty hotel room, but the stuff strewn around is obvious- her roommate is Lauren.

The first thing Becky does is rummage through her bag and dig out a book that looks like it’s been through Hell and back. Amy takes it, noting water damage, and the way the pages and covers have dried so that they’re in a constant ripple.

“The Light Between Oceans,” she reads, and Becky nods.

“It’s a romance.”

“I don’t-”

“Me either, usually.”

Becky gestures at the little living space, at the couch and coffee table- it’s a bigger room than the ones they normally get for national team stayovers, which Amy notices but doesn’t mention- and they sit, Amy on the couch and Becky on the chair that slides under the desk.

“Do you ever loosen up?”

Amy balks at the question, clearing her throat, unsure whether or not to be offended.

“It’s hard to loosen up with an ACL injury.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant- I don’t know. I’m trying.”

She’s never seen Becky like this, fraying at the edges a little, and she knows it’s not the one drink at dinner that’s doing it. Something’s eating at her nerves worse than a tournament game. Amy thinks it’s probably the sight of her knee scar, but she doesn’t mention it, too afraid to jump to conclusions. She asks, instead.

“Trying for what?”

“You’re bad at taking hints.”

She’s blunt; she always is. Amy takes it gracefully because that’s the only way she knows how to take it, especially when she still has no idea what’s going on. She doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little, still surprised that the dull ache in her knee is as dull as it is. Becky gets up and leans over the coffee table in one fluid movement, knees to the edge, cups Amy’s face in her hands and changes everything.

It’s awkward, a little, because of the table between them and Becky’s sharp lean, but it’s a shock right down the spine for Amy, who can’t even _think_ about kissing back before it's over. 

Becky straightens up and just looks, unreadable. 

"I didn't know," is all Amy can think to say, but in hindsight she's not sure how she didn't. Becky offers a watered-down half-smile, like she thinks this is a rejection. Trust her to handle even that with poise. 

"I know you didn't. I was trying to tell you without telling you. Which is stupid, obviously. Kind of adolescent."

Even self-deprecating, Becky doesn't sound too deflated, and it takes some of the pressure off, letting Amy do something bold. 

And she does. 

"C'mere."

If her knee were working right she'd round the table, but as it is all she can really do is gesture for Becky to do it; she knows her staggering limp will ruin the moment if the rest of her doesn't do it first. Obediently, Becky comes to sit, but she sits on the arm, bracing herself with a hand on the top of the couch beside Amy's head, so close that their knees touch. 

The angle's not great, but it doesn't matter. Amy reaches, taking Becky's chin between her thumb and forefinger, and brings her down so that their lips meet a second time. It fits; it works, how Becky takes her time and the kiss is slow and chaste. It's a rare thing for a kiss like this to go on so long, but it does, long enough that by the time Becky moves to deepen it Amy is desperate for it and she knocks her knee against the coffee table when she leans up. 

She hisses, pulling back, a hand immediately flying to where it hurts.

"Sorry-" Becky's reaching, too, and their hands touch but Amy panics. She doesn't want anyone- Becky least of all- to know how hard the recovery is. "It was me," she says by way of dismissing it, "I'm fine. I just- I'm fine."

Amy clears her throat, kind of looking away, letting the moment die before either of them feels obligated to make it last. 

"I didn't even know you were- I mean, I always sort of thought you were, I guess, straight."

"It's a little more complicated than that," Becky admits, "at least it is for me. 'Straight' doesn't really cover all the bases."

Amy wonders if the uncovered base is just her, if she's enough to be someone's sole exception, but she chases the thought away immediately. Even if there are other bases, as she assumes there have to be, Becky's still here. And Becky still kissed her. 

"Is this okay?"

Becky's hand is on her knee- for a moment Amy thinks she means the injury- and her face is open, like she's never been so vulnerable in her life. The amount of feeling there absolutely floors Amy, who has trouble replying and has to stutter it out- "This, what we- that? Yeah. Yes, of course. I've.."

She hears what she sounds like and stops herself, blushing. Becky makes a sound like she’s trying not to laugh, until Amy looks up at her.

“What?”

“I’ve wanted to.”

The laugh doesn’t stay hidden this time; Becky outright _giggles_ and it’s nothing like Amy’s ever heard from her before. This time she sees it coming when Becky leans over to kiss her. The lean is different, though, because she’s letting herself slide off the arm a bit, until she’s almost in Amy’s lap. The arm that’s been resting on the top of the couch falls, so that Becky’s fingers are tangling with the hair at the back of Amy’s neck, and her other hand reaches to Amy’s cheek, and Amy can’t help but reach up and tug Becky down off the arm. To do it she has to move over, herself, so they’re sitting side by side, both Becky’s knees pressed against Amy’s bad one.

There’s another throb but Amy ignores it until she can’t anymore, until she has to pull back and wince, and she sees it the moment Becky realizes and sees it the moment she regrets the move.

“Don’t,” Amy says, “it’s fine.”

It doesn't matter what she says, though, because Becky’s looking at the scar on her knee, brow creased with worry, and Amy feels the warmth drain out of her just as quickly as it got into her.

“How long are you staying here?”

“Seattle?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. It’s- I didn’t think about it, for the rest of the season maybe.”

“Oh.” Becky looks crestfallen, and Amy can’t understand why. She thinks about asking but decides against it, because Becky doesn’t look as if she’s done. She wrings her hands a little, pressing herself into the arm of the couch to keep from hitting Amy’s knee more than she already has. “I thought you were just visiting Liz, not...living with her.”

“It’s not like that,” Amy says, quick to correct her, “We haven’t been together in ages. She just knew I’d want the company, she invited me so I wouldn’t be alone.”

She doesn’t get it until Becky looks away, and then she wishes she hadn’t spoken at all.

“You didn’t have to be alone in Chicago,” and of course it’s true, even though Shannon’s back in LA with her husband, with her own injury. She could have stayed with her team. She could have lived with Lori, even, and traveled with _them_ instead of to a team she wasn’t even allocated to, a team she has no loyalty to. When she thinks about it it’s clear what the situation looks like, and it makes her nauseous to think that might have been Liz’s plan all along. To bring them back together.

“I didn’t think about it.”

Becky doesn’t answer her. She tries again.

“I hope you’re not sorry you kissed me.”

The smile she gets in reply is weak, but it’s still a smile.

“We can’t start anything,” Becky says eventually, reaching out to touch the scar with the pad of her forefinger, tracing the jagged line from the recent surgery and then the faded one from years back, “So maybe I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

-

Amy leaves disappointed and unable to really put her finger on why. It’s not as if she expected anything, exactly. She certainly didn’t expect Becky to kiss her in the first place, so she’s got no right to be disappointed that it didn’t go anywhere. For the most part she’s just shell-shocked, all the way back to Liz’s, trying to wrap her head around the idea of what she’s gotten herself into. 

She can’t. Not really. All she can do the whole taxi ride is replay the kisses, closing her eyes as she jolts along, until she realizes that her lips still tingle and raises her fingertips to them to check.They still do, and if she closes her eyes she can still see Becky leaning in, but she can’t stop hearing ‘we can’t start anything’, even after she hobbles into the elevator and into Liz’s apartment. 

Liz is waiting for her. At least that’s what it looks like, because Liz is leaning against the counter with a mug of tea in her hands and her hair pulled up even though it’s wet and she knows the elastic will leave a ridge. Amy blinks.

“Is there more tea?”

“Sure. Earl Grey or Green?”

The question seems insurmountably difficult. Amy’s mind still isn’t quite all together, so she murmurs ‘surprise me’ and sinks onto a bar stool, propping herself up with her good leg. Liz hands her the tea, and she watches the bag seep for an indeterminate amount of time before Liz sits beside her and she knows she's going to have to say it. 

"How is she?"

"Good. She's good. Tired, I think."

"She played a good game."

It sounds a little like an accusation and Amy shies from it, stirring to avoid eye contact. 

"You both did."

Liz shifts, her tea all but forgotten. 

"You like her," she says, letting it out on a breath like she doesn't particularly expect to say it out loud. Amy looks up, holding the mug even though it's still a bit too hot, facing the jealousy she knows she'll see. It's not quite jealousy, though. Liz looks more disappointed than jealous, and she certainly doesn't look angry. Just deflated. 

“She kissed me,” Amy blurts, and she’s trying to sort of defend herself but mostly what it comes out as is an admission, and she gets scared that she’s said too much and ducks her head to try and take a sip of tea. It’s too hot, and it burns her tongue and the roof of her mouth, but it’s better than the look on Liz’s face.

“When?”

“Tonight. Uh, a few times.”

“Amy-”

“It’s not a thing. I mean, she said it couldn’t be.”

The air settles between them and Amy tries the tea again. This time it’s not too hot, and she can tell it’s green tea. She’s glad it is. Earl Grey would remind her of winter and winter would remind her of being in Seattle because it’s where she lived. Because this apartment was once her apartment and she didn’t used to want to kiss one of her teammates laid out on a couch.

She used to want to kiss Liz the way she still can’t stop thinking about kissing Becky.

“Did you ask her why?”

It’s the last thing Amy expected to hear. She looks up so suddenly she almost spills her tea, and when she does she sees that the deflated look is almost gone, replaced by concern that makes her feel twice as guilty.

“No,” she admits, but for the first time it occurs to her that she could have, that it wasn’t a definite rejection. It was maybe more of a question.

Maybe it was the foraging bear wondering what _she_ was doing in the tent.

“You need to. She probably didn’t mean it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’d be crazy to kiss you and then regret it.”

It means more than it sounds like it means, and Amy's smart enough to know it. Liz maintains eye contact for another few seconds before she goes back to her own tea, sipping with downcast eyes, in a way that seems incredibly calculated. 

“Well,” Amy says, eventually, “It’s not as if I can go back and change it. I didn’t ask.”

“So go ask.”

-

She’s crazy. She can feel it, that she’s crazy to do this, popping up and down on her toes at the mouth of the elevator, waiting for it to hit the lobby. Her hands are so deep into her pockets that she’s half pulling the jeans off her own hips, and she’s clenching her teeth against the wave of nervousness rising inside her. She remembers this feeling from asking Liz out, years ago, for the first time; ready for all the world to hear that she’d been taking hints wrong all along, that she was a fool even to think- for a moment- but this is different, because there’s already something between them. The kiss that Becky initiated, and the after.

Jen and Leigh Ann are in the elevator, and both of them know who she is but smile at her and don’t question why she’s there. They still startle her though, enough that she ducks her head and shuffles into the elevator without looking up again until the doors are closing, afraid they’ll say something, or that when she looks they’ll be talking about her. They’re not talking at all, just heading for the little hotel gift store, and aside from her the elevator is empty.

Empty but reflective. She catches sight of herself in the chrome doors and tries a smile, because she looks as if someone’s just died in front of her, but it comes out forced so instead she looks back at the counter telling her what floor she’s on. Becky’s on the sixteenth. 1604. Amy remembers it vividly but when she knocks she’s still afraid she’s going to get it wrong. It’s Lauren that opens the door, before Amy even knocks, a Twizzler hanging out of the side of her mouth, her hoodie up over her head.

“Hey!”

Amy’s hit with a hug before she has time to extend one, but she has time to hug back before Lauren excuses herself and slips into the hallway, leaving Amy standing in the doorway and Becky looking up at her from her spot on her bed, book in hand.

It’s the short stories book Amy sent her. She’s most of the way through it, but she puts it down without hesitation, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

“What-?”

“You said we couldn’t start anything. I just wanted to know why not.”

-

It’s not like how they’d expect it to be. They’re cross-country in the beginning of a relationship, unable to do the things an early relationship requires. They can’t go on dates. They Skype, when they can, but there’s time zones to consider, and schedules. It’s more like they’re close friends with a tacit agreement that, in the event that they’re actually physically together again, they’ll be a little more.

Except for the book.

-

_“...it’s not always plain sailing, even when you’ve found the right girl. You’ve got to be in it for the long haul. You never know what’s going to happen: you sign up for whatever comes along. There’s no backing out.”_

-

By the time playoffs roll around, they’re making progress. It’s slow, and Amy’s impatient, but nobody knows it. Only Becky, whose patience seems endless until they’re alone in a room together. Then- on the eve of the first playoff game, when Amy surprises her- all that patience disappears. Becky’s as desperate as the past few months suggest she’d be, and the moment her surprise has passed she’s kissing Amy’s laughing smile.

“I didn’t know you were coming for the game,” she says.

“I didn’t. I owe you books.”

-

September creeps up on them.

The summer is gone so suddenly that Amy has no time to try and cling to it; by the time she notices it, the wisps of brown and the cool breezes creeping in are all there is to notice. She’s not up to peak again, but she knows she’s not ready for a full ninety at international level. She might be able to handle a club season, if it were about to start. She knows she’ll be fine come the start of the NWSL season, but she also knows the national team is stirring, and she knows her time in Seattle with Liz is ending, and every day she trains, afraid she’s training for nothing.

If she worries about losing Becky (and of course she does), she ignores it. The thing is that she still can’t help associating Becky with the summer that’s losing ground.

Becky notices, of course.

-

“What’s bugging you?”

Amy tries to put it into words and shrugs before she remembers the gesture is useless over the phone.

“It’s hard not being there.”

“We Skype.”

“You know what I mean. It’s not- there’s no point, if there’s nothing to be working toward.”

“This isn’t about us,” Becky says, exactly like Amy knew she would. She always gets it.

“Yes it is. I mean, part of it. Just that it feels like we’re not anything in particular.”

“We’re not. We can’t be. I told you that before.”

Becky’s being circular; trying to get Amy to talk through it on her own. All it really succeeds in doing is establishing which of them is more stubborn- surprisingly, Becky loses that round.

“But we are. Something.”

Amy’s adamant about it, because she knows that there’s more of Becky in the notes she writes in her margins than she’ll admit, and because she knows that nowadays those notes in the margin are meant for her. Becky sighs into her end of the phone, but there’s a smile in it.

“I’d ask you out on a date if you were here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

-

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

did you find it?

-

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

i’m not good at poetry.

-

 **Becky**  
iMESSAGE

it’s the same thing as prose, just  
broken up  
differently

-

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

ha  
clever

-

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

two stubborn people, dulled into habit / stuck in the old sock of marriage, might just fall in love again ?

-

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

maybe if we were married...

-

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

you are not me, and i am never you / except for thirty seconds in a year / when ecstasy of coming, / laughing at the same time / or being cruel to know for certain / what the other’s feeling / charge some recognition ?

-

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

this way the thirty seconds counts

-

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

well, because every thirty seconds is THE thirty seconds.  
because we’re always laughing at different times?

-

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

you sure you weren’t an english major?

-  
 **Amy  
iMESSAGE**

i’m glad you’re not me. i wouldn’t like you very much if you were me.

-

**Becky  
iMESSAGE**

tom’s going to call you up, you know.

**Amy  
iMESSAGE**

he’s not.

-

He doesn’t. That’s how it ends up, really, is that he doesn’t put her on the list, and she’s not surprised, even though he’s said that he wants her back, or wants to try to have her back eventually. It’s alright. She’s not sure she’s ready anyway, and it’s better to see Crystal’s name on the list, except- except that there’s Becky’s, of course. 

She’s not expecting the phone call, so she barely grabs it in time before it stops ringing, out of breath in stocked feet, in her own apartment in Chicago.

“I’d like to invite you to camp.”

He doesn’t introduce himself, but she knows it’s Tom, and she stumbles over herself trying to answer. Instead of gratefulness what comes out is confusion: “I’m not on the list?”

“No, not officially, but I think you should be there. I didn’t want to hold you to the promise of training with everyone else if you weren’t ready, but if you don’t mind coming, not for the friendlies- just so I can see where you’re at-”

“I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.” Amy’s shaking a little, smiling so hard her cheeks ache, and surprised how close she is to tears. She knows it shouldn’t surprise her, though. This team is her life, really. The _game_ is her life.

“Thank you so much,” she manages, and Tom laughs, but he’s not laughing at her and she knows it.

“Don’t thank _me_.”

-

_and if  
I were to say_

_I love you and  
I do love you_

_and I say it  
now and again_

_and again  
would you say_

_parataxis  
would you see_

_the world revolves  
anew_

_its axis  
you_


End file.
